


Everyone's Dad Fucked Everyone's Mom (Kinktober 2018)

by PBJellie



Category: South Park
Genre: Begging, Blow Jobs, Breast Fucking, Crying, Daddy Kink, Edgeplay, F/M, Feet, Hair-pulling, Halloween, Homophobic Language, Incest, Kinktober, M/M, Married Couple, Masks, Masturbation, Men Crying, Oral Sex, PWP, Prostitution, Sibling Incest, Teasing, Trolling
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-05
Updated: 2018-10-11
Packaged: 2019-07-25 11:20:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 7,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16196507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PBJellie/pseuds/PBJellie
Summary: Yo, it's Kinktober 2018. But only the gross adults. Enjoy.





	1. Day 1: Masks

“Sharon!” Randy slurred, leaning against Stan as they trudged up the stairs to their house. It had snowed early this year, as it occasionally did, leaving everyone half frozen in their Halloween costumes. “Hey, Sharon!”

Sharon looked back, face slack. She had insisted, rather foolishly, that they all go as a group, and dress on a theme. They were all super heroes. 

Not the Avengers, because Shelly had insisted that she didn't want to be Black Widow. Even after Sharon had bought the wig to be Pepper Potts. Somehow she had stuffed herself into a Wonder Woman costume, and had proceeded to wrap the rope around Stan’s neck whenever she got the chance.

“Sharon, hey, hey!” Randy shouted as he fumbled to put his key in the lock. “Hey! Guess what? Hey! Sharon!” 

“What, Randy?” She gently pushed him out of they way to the door, deciding he wasn't going to be able to open it. 

“Hulk Smash, if you know what I mean?” He raised his hands, which he had painted blue. Not green, no; Randy was colorblind, and instead of asking for assistance at Walgreen's when picking up his makeup, or God forbid, reading the tube to check the color, he grabbed blue.

“Not now,” she sighed, watching Stan climb the stairs in his recycled Captain America costume. He had a spat with Kyle, so luckily there weren’t two Hulks. Sharon didn’t think she could deal with the obnoxiousness of Kyle and Randy trying to outdo each other. They were nearly insufferable alone. 

“But Sharon!” Randy whined, as both Shelly and Stan tried to sneak full pillowcases of unchecked candy up into their rooms. 

Fuck it. Sharon was too tired to care. 

“Randy, I’m not in the mood,” she sighed, looking at his blue neck and the child size Hulk mask that didn’t quite line up with his eyes. He had insisted on not wearing a shirt, even as the snow fell around them. Of course, of fucking course, the snow had landed on his naked body, and he complained as the paint ran. 

“You’re never in the mood,” he said with a harumph, crossing his arms in the living room. “Imma make some pizza rolls. I bet you’re not in the mood for those, either.” 

“I’m not,” she said through gritted teeth, wondering if someone snuck a razor blade into her kids’ candy. “Thanks.” She figured, if they did, that both were old enough not to swallow, so she let it pass. 

“You never are.” She could hear the tab of a beer popping open as the microwave beeped. “You never are, Sharon.” 

“Why on Earth do you want to screw as the Hulk anyway, Randy?” Sharon groaned, collapsing onto the couch. She sat quietly, taking in the relative silence of the room. All she could hear was Randy shuffling around, occasionally drinking from a metal can. She could tell it was a can from the clink of his teeth. 

She regretted wearing heels, even if it was part of the costume. It’s not like anyone knew who she was. Randy was supposed to be Iron Man, but instead he came home with blue paint and a kids mask, and proceeded to walk around barefoot in the snow in a pair of ratty brown boxers. He had been drunk enough not to care.

As he usually was. 

“Hey! Hey, Sharon!” He sunk down next to her, resting a plate of pizza rolls against his blue stomach. “Hey!”

“Don’t sit! You’re gonna stain the couch!” she shrieked. He had already left a trail of blue footprints through the carpet on their way out. “Don’t make more work for me.” 

“Why?” he asked. “It’s not like you do anything else. It’s not like you.” He took a bite of pizza roll, shoving the whole thing into his mouth. “Oh shit! Fuck! That’s hot! Hot! Hot hot hot! God damn, Sharon!” 

She just shook her head, drinking in the absurdity of this moment. Of her life. How did she get to this point? 

“Sharon!” he shouted, pieces of pizza roll flying onto the already messy carpet. “Help me!” 

“How? How in the Hell am I supposed to help you?” she asked, eyeing him as he clawed at his mouth. He had dropped his beer onto the floor, and overturned the plate. He spat, dramatically.

“I dunno,” he wailed. He spat the last remaining bit of food onto the coffee table. “Maybe, maybe,” he paused, a smile creeping to his face. “Maybe, Hulk smash?” 

“Jesus Christ!” She threw her hands up, jumping to her feet. Carefully she avoided the food on the floor, and went to the kitchen for a paper towel. A roll of paper towels. Enough to clean the mess that Randy had made of their house. 

“If we smash, then I’ll shower before bed,” he offered, plucking an uneaten pizza roll off of the ground, dusting it off against his chest. He smeared it with blue paint, then inspected it idly as Sharon walked back into the room with cleaning supplies. He ate it, popping it into his mouth whole, and repeating the previous charade. 

“If I can spray you off with the hose first,” she sighed, holding a paper towel underneath his mouth so he could, once again, spit out a pizza roll. 

“Deal!” he said eagerly. “Are we gonna Hulk smash outside?” 

“Please don’t call it Hulk smash,” she groaned. She thought about the mess the paint would make anywhere else, and nodded, slowly. “We can do it on the trampoline,” she whispered, seductively. As seductively as she could, while wiping pizza rolls off of her husband's tongue.

She figured she could just spray him off when it was over. Something about the image of Randy spread eagle against the house, hands braced above his head, as she pelted freezing cold water at him, sent a jolt through her. 

She was at least going to enjoy end of this night. 

“Yes!” He pulled his fist into his side as he struggled to get off the couch. As Sharon predicted, there was a huge blue spot. Hopefully Kroger would have a steam cleaner she could rent in the morning. “It’s, Sharon, it’s not,” his voice dropped to a whisper, “that time of the month, is it?” 

“Randy!” she shouted, stomping into the kitchen. She carded her hands through her hair, tossing her wig onto the counter. She let the back door swing closed. It was cold. Maybe he wouldn’t be able to get it up. Maybe she’d just get to spray the shit out of him with the water hose.

“I was just checking!” he groaned, eyes obviously squinted so he could see through the mask. Why wasn’t he taking it off? Why was he so insistent on this? “I just don’t want to stick my dick in that. It’s gross.”

“And you dressed up as the Hulk isn’t?” She asked, hands on her hips. He was already shivering in the cold. Fuck it, she thought. He was probably too drunk to remember this.

As carefully as she could, she walked through the freshly fallen snow on their deck to the spout for the hose. The metal of the spigot was cold against her bare hands. She smiled, cruelly. She was going to enjoy the hell out of this. 

“Hulk smash this!” She screamed, holding the hose in her hands. Randy stood, still squinting in that stupid fucking mask. Why couldn’t he just be Iron Man? He was supposed to be Iron Man. There was a new Iron Man outfit in their closet. If he had just picked that, like he was supposed to, this would never had happened. 

She laughed, shallowly, and aimed the hose at his chest. They had bought a nozzle for it last summer, so she could easily water her tomato plants. 

“Don’t do it, Sharon. Don’t do it!” He wailed, trembling. His nipples were hard as he used both blue hands to cover his crotch. 

“Don’t paint myself blue and sit on the couch?” she asked, eyebrows raised. “Or don’t dress like the Hulk when my wife is Pepper Potts? Or do you mean don’t get drunk on Halloween? What do you mean, Randy?” 

“Sharon, are you sure you’re not on your period?”

That was enough. She pulled the handle taut, and sprayed him. He wailed, whimpering about how it was cold, as blue paint trailed down his body and puddled at his feet. Methodically she went up and down his body, smirking as he fidgeted uncomfortably but made no attempts to move. 

“Turn around, big boy,” she rasped, almost taken aback by how much she was enjoying this.

“Sharon,” he yelped, doing as he was told. 

“That’s it,” she said, getting the paint from the nape of his neck. “Just like that.” 

“I thought we were gonna smash,” he sulked, shaking in the cold. “I thought,” he broke into a noisy sob, which should have deterred Sharon, and she knew that, but it didn’t. “I thought we were gonna smash.” 

“Go shower,” she ordered, dropping the hose. Randy ran back into the house, tail between his legs. Slowly, she walked after him, not flinching as the door slammed in front of her. 

As he showered, loudly complaining about the hose through the closed door, she reached into her underwear drawer and retrieved a Hitachi that Liane Cartman had so graciously given her a few birthday’s ago. 

She couldn’t even hear the buzz over the sound of water pelting the tile, let alone over his bitching. She worked quickly, unzipping her pants just enough to allow access. She feverishly ran the toy up and down her clit as he whimpered about how cold he was. 

She relished the sound of him complaining. For tonight, even if it was only tonight, she had a taste of real power and control. Her orgasm hit her quickly, and quietly as it usually did. 

She was already fast asleep by the time Randy joined her in bed.


	2. Day 2: Begging

“Please Stephen,” Roger Donovan begged, kneeling in front of Stephen Stotch. The knees of his work slacks dug into the unwashed floor of The White Swallow Bath House. He didn’t even imagine himself here. Hell, he imagined he’d still be married at this point in his life, but here he was, on his knees, begging for Stephen Stotch’s penis. 

“Tell me what you want,” he snarled. 

Roger had always known that Stephen was nasty. It was obvious, from the stories he told the guys about disciplining Butters, to the way he purposefully sedated Linda when she grew too mouthy. But he was the easiest option to feel the flesh of another person against himself. He’d be lonely since Betsy died, and he didn’t want the kids to realize. 

As he looked up at Stephen, hatred and disgust glinting in his eyes, he wondered if maybe being lonely in front of his kids was a better option. 

“I want, uhhh,” he faltered, looking down at the pants around Stephen’s ankles.

“Did I say to look down?” Stephen barked, hands balled into fists. “What did I say to do? Huh?” There was a tense silence. “Hey!” 

“Tell you,” Roger said, holding the eye contact by looking past the cruel contours of his face in the low light.

“Are you going to? Or are you going to just sit there like an imbecile?” 

“I want to suck your dick,” Roger choked out, remembering a time when sex was something he only did with his wife. Something with at least some semblance of sacredness.

“You want to suck my dick, what?” He grabbed a handful of Rogers hair, yanking his eyes back to meet his. “Don’t forget your manners, boy!” 

He didn’t mention that he was a good five years older than Stephen. He didn’t even speak up about how much he hated having his hair pulled. He gulped, and responded correctly. The way Stephen wanted him to. 

“I want to suck your dick, sir.” 

“I don’t know that I believe you,” Stephen smirked, removing a single hand from the vice grip in Roger’s hair. From his peripheral vision he could see that Stephen was deliberately pumping his penis. Slowly, and with purpose. 

“Please,” he said again. “Please, sir. I need it. I need something. Anything!” Roger lamented, collapsing in on himself. How did he get so lonely that he was willing to suck Stephen Stotch off for sexual attention? When she died he’d promised himself, swore, that he’d never take another wife. And he felt obligated to keep his promises, like her spirit was watching over him. 

He hoped she wasn’t watching now. 

“Again!” He ordered, jacking himself with more urgency. 

“Please. I need it, sir. I need it. I need your-” and without warning, Stephen had slammed his hips forward, dragging Roger closer by his hair, as his other hand situated his dick in his mouth.

“Bet you like that,” he taunted, “Bet you like having another man’s dick in your mouth.” 

Roger nodded slightly, mouth full. He steadied himself, tongue flat against the back of his teeth as Stephen pounded in and out. It was quick, no real rhythm, just frantic energy. Soon both hands were in his hair, yanking and manipulating him into the correct position. His mouth was sore from being forced open, but he didn’t dare close it any. 

It’d be over soon enough.

He tasted salt, and something like bleach. The way bleach smelled at least. 

Maybe it was just Stephen that tasted way. 

“See you next week?” Stephen asked, fastening his pants. 

What other options were there? Who else would he spend his Tuesday nights with? Roger nodded, watching Stephen walk away.


	3. Day 3: Edgeplay

Part of her wanted to keep her hand around his throat forever. His neck had a little bit of give as she dug her nails into his skin. 

She held fast, watching his face turn red. She pressed a little harder. He hadn't pulled for his hair yet, so he didn't want to stop. 

Liane wasn't someone to stop before a person was ready. She had always been accommodating. 

“You like that, Jack?” She asked, voice low, as to not wake up her four year old son who was sleeping next door. 

Their four year old son. 

He nodded frantically as Liane loomed above him, flush against his dick, bouncing occasionally. 

This wasn't about the sex for her, as was usually the case. But this time wasn't about paying her mortgage or feeding her little pumpkin, either. She thought about pressing hard enough to kill him.

She'd probably get away with it. It not like he still played for the Denver Broncos. It's not like he'd be the first football star to be carried away by fame and fortune.

Instead, she eased up, raising herself off of him, only to fall back. With someone else maybe this would have been enjoyable. If she was someone else, or if he was someone else.

Someone decent. Someone who took care of his mistress and kid, instead of just tossing an extra twenty dollars onto his monthly sessions. 

“Why'd you'd stop?” He choked out, rubbing the handprint around his neck. “I didn't say stop.” 

“Oh Peaches,” she said, voice artificially high. She knew he had tinnitus. She knew it'd hurt him. “I didn't realize that you’d be okay to go further.” 

She pulled off of him, slamming her hand back around his neck as she let him enter her, again. Slowly this time. 

There was no rush. He'd paid for an hour and it'd only been fifteen minutes. She couldn't be know for purposely ending clients sessions early.

This was her business. This was her only lifeline keeping her out of her mom's basement in Nebraska. This was the only thing she could really do with such small child. It's not like she could afford daycare, and it's not like Jack was stepping up to the plate. 

She dug her nails into his throat, watching him gasp with morbid curiosity. He wasn't contributing to his kid. No, not a lick. When she'd asked if he wanted Eric to have his last name he'd nearly laughed her pregnant ass out of the motel room. 

She used her spare hand to twist one of his nipples, yanking as she held her other hand fast. She knew he didn't really like having them touched, much less played with so roughly, but sometimes it wasn't about what you liked. 

Sometimes it was just performing a service. Sometimes she just pretended he was a stranger who'd found her number written in black marker in Tweak Bros men's room.

But tonight she wasn't pretending. Tonight she really wanted to choke him.

“Maaaaaam!” A little voice wailed outside of her bedroom. 

“Just a minute my little poopsykins!” She chimed back, voice breathy. 

“Maaam!” He shrieked again. 

Liane sighed. She pulled her hand back enough for Jack to get a gasp of air, before pressing down again. This time she humped feverishly, trying to bring him to climax as fast as she could. 

He came, hard and fast, like he usually did. His wife must be terrible in the sack. She mustn't be able to satisfy him.

“Maaaaaam! Maaaam! I peed, Maaaaaaaam!” Eric wailed. “Maaaam!” 

“Be right there,” she sighed, sliding away from Jack. He was just another client. This wasn't special. There was nothing special about this. She slid on her robe, fastening it around her waist as she opened the door.

“Man, I’m glad I don't have any young ones anymore,” he smiled from the bed. 

“I bet you are,” she said through clenched teeth. “Motherfucker,” she cursed under her breath one the door had closed.


	4. Day 4: Crying

“Open,” Stephen whispered, running his hand gently through Linda's hair. “Atta girl.” 

Her eyes were glazed over as she knelt at the edge of their bed. His legs were spread open, cock soft in the warm air. He could hear past the sound of her breathing to the rattle of the heater. 

“Okay,” she nodded, mouth open. “Okay, honey.” 

Honey. He shuddered. He had always been her honey. He had seen Roger last night, and the Richard the night before last. Tonight was Linda's night. 

She dipped her head forward, blonde hair falling down to frame her face. She manipulate his penis into her mouth, kissing it once on the tip of the head. She licked tentatively and he should have enjoyed it. 

He wasn't. 

Part of him wanted stubble to scrape against his thighs as she ducked down. She was too feminine to pretend she was someone else. 

She was topless as well. Her breasts were supple, and he should have taken pleasure in that. His father would have taken pleasure in that. So would have his grandfather, and his grandfather's father. 

He was the odd man out. 

“Do you like it?” She asked, eyes glazed over. Like she wasn't really here. But she was. He could feel her against his body, but she was gone. 

He wished he was gone, too. 

“Uh-huh,” he mumbled out, doing his best to imagine she was someone else. “It's great.” 

It wasn't. She wasn't good a blowjobs. Too much spit. He could feel her tongue haphazardly trail up and down his dick. He was her first. She was a good Christian girl who waited. She waited, for what? For him? For their loveless marriage? 

She nodded like she almost believed him and went back to work. 

Stephen felt a tear sneak into the corner of his eye. This wasn't what he wanted for his life. He knew damn well he couldn't have what he wanted. Not really, anyways. He could have it in hour segments with Butters friend's dads. Only in dim light, only in rooms that we're slightly too cold.

He didn't say anything as he pried Linda's mouth away. He wordlessly walked into the bathroom, pants still wadded around his ankles. 

If he was going to cry, he would do it in public.


	5. Day 5: Feet

Richard never understood why these rooms were so dirty. If the models were walking around barefoot with polished toes, why make the floor filthy? They charged him forty dollars to get in, and they couldn’t even sweep. Disgusting.

That was just bad customer service. 

He wondered if Tweek was keeping up the store as he left for his business trip. His wife didn’t need to know. She wouldn’t even suspect anything. Not when he traded her pills to Stephen for favors.

He wondered how much a favor would cost here.

“I like yours,” he said to a woman, he didn’t meet her eyes, they weren’t important. He focused downward, indulging in the bulge of her ankle, and the delicate jewelry on her middle toe.

“Thanks,” she sounded happy as lifted her left foot off of the ground, twisting her big toe into the tile seductively. He didn’t check to see if she was smiling. He wasn’t here for her face. 

“How much for a little personal attention? Your feet are like a fresh brewed cup of coffee after a four day blizzard.”

“Uh,” she curled her toes, turning them inward. “Thanks, I guess.” She rocked back and feet on the balls of her feet, grinding the pads of her pristine toes into the dirt. “I don’t do personal shows. Sorry.” 

“I thought all the feet did performances,” he smirked, tapping the top of her nail with his black loafers. “I have cash,” he said, tapping again. “Non-sequential bills.” 

“Uh, no thanks,” she said, rising to her tiptoes, before she turned to show him her heel. 

He could have sworn he saw a blister, so no love lost.


	6. Day 6: Daddy

“I can’t find the little man in the boat, Daddy,” Officer Barbrady rasped, pulling away from Mayor McDaniel’s crotch. Her hands pulled at his thinning hair, the officer cap long since discarded.

“Try harder,” she spat. “Try for Daddy.” 

“Yes, sir,” he mumbled. A quick yank at his hair made him correct himself. “I mean, Daddy. Yes, Daddy.” 

“That’s a good boy,” she moaned as he went back to work. “Atta boy.” 

He was silent for a few minutes, save for the heavy panting through his mouth. Her legs squeezed around his head, as he swore he heard a gunshot. 

“What was that?” He asked, pulling away, fluid dripping off of his chin. 

“It’s nothing,” she snapped. “Get to work or I’ll find a new police chief.” She kicked her leg out, digging a the end of her high heel into the small of his back. “Also, it’s Daddy. Don’t be such a disrespectful little shit.”

“Yes, Daddy,” he stuttered, going back to work. “Nothing to see, nothing to see here.”


	7. Day 7: Incest

“Randy, you sure you’re okay with this?” Jimbo asked, glancing around his cabin, and down at Ned, bound to the bed. They weren’t boyfriends, him and Ned were too serious for that, but it’s not like they bought into the whole gays coopting marriage bullshit, either. Marriage was a man and a woman, and also the lamest fucking institution Jimbo had ever seen. Coming from someone who served in the shitshow that was the army during the draft, that meant a lot. "I don't want you pussing out of us at the last minute."

“Yeah, we’re bros. What kind of bro can’t fuck their bros boyfriend as a team for his birthday? A bad bro, that’s who,” Randy said, sipping from a flask Ned had handed him when he arrived. “Anyway, I’m confident that mine is better. It’s a nice dick, Jimbo.” 

“You don’t have to be such a flaming faggot all the time, Jesus Christ,” Jimbo groaned. “It’s not like we gotta touch them together at see whose tip juts out further. I ain’t Gerald or Stephen, for fucks sake.” 

“I haven’t fucked them,” Randy fidgeted nervously, looking down at the naked man tied down beneath them. “You don’t know that I’ve fucked them.” 

“I think we both know, that I know you have,” Jimbo laughed as Ned nodded. “Even Ned knows, and he’s not a real perceptive fella.” 

“Shut up,” Randy whined, staring at his feet as he pulled off his underwear. “It’s a good dick. Don’t say my dick is bad. Goddamn, shitty brother. You’re only my half brother by the way, so your opinion only matters half.” 

“Oh, you’re such a little titty baby. Waaaah,” Jimbo mocked, throwing his voice into falsetto and waking fists below his eyes. “Dad didn’t buy me a new car for my sixteenth birthday. Boohoo, my parents are getting a divorce. Oh no, my brother has a better dick than me.”

“You don’t!” He shouted, stomping his foot as he tried to shimmy out of his underwear. “It’s just cold, because you’re a hillbilly redneck who heats your house with a wood stove. He’s just hiding!” Randy wrapped a hand around his length as Jimbo pulled of his pants, without trouble. 

“You’re trying to coax him out like some kinda turtle. Look at that, Ned. He can’t even get his dick hard,” Jimbo chuckled, shaking Ned by the shoulder. “What kind of red blooded man can’t get it hard for sex?” 

“Shut up,” Randy grumbled, glaring at his brother. Half brother, they weren’t real brothers. “I’ve got red blood. I’m not like you. I’m not a homosexual, not that there's anything wrong with homosexuals. I mean, I let Stan be friends with Tweek and Craig. I don’t care about homosexuals, I’m just not one.” 

“Keep telling yourself that, powder puff,” Jimbo spat, rolling his eyes. “You gonna put you’re poor excuse for a dong in Ned’s mouth, or are you gonna go all PC on me?” 

“PC is a lifestyle!” Randy shouted, stepping back into his underwear. “I didn’t choose to be woke! Being woke chose me!” He ripped his coat off of the wall hook, which was just a rusty nail Jimbo was too lazy to hammer back into place. “I expected a little more compassion from you. Some empathy would have been nice!” 

“You fucking queer! Go on! Get! Git!” Jimbo shouted as the door slammed. “Some guys can’t take a fucking joke, Ned.” 

Ned just nodded, opening his mouth as Jimbo climbed onto the bed and straddled his head.


	8. Day 8: Prostitution/Sex Work

Liane wondered if it was even worth the gas to Denver. She shivered in the cold, nipples hard against her fishnet crop top. She didn't wear a bra on her work trips, it wasn't worth the extra hassle. 

It had started to snow, and tossing on a bulky coat was not how you sold the merchandise. She had a toddler at home with a hungry mouth, and rent she couldn't really afford to pay, not to mention the cost of heating.

This winter seemed colder than last. Her gas bill seemed to reflect that, too. She'd have to ask Carol to keep the heat lower. It's not like she was sober as she passed out of the couch with all the kids in front of the TV. She wasn't a good babysitter; she was a warm body so CPS wasn't beating down her door for leaving a two and a half year old locked in his room for five hours. 

A brown Toyota sputtered down the street slowly. There was a scuff in the front bumper, on the passenger side, like he'd scrapped a plastic pylon while driving through Burger King. One hub cap was missing too, but beggars couldn't be choosers. If all she could get tonight was a poor man, she’d at least have her gas home, and fifteen for Carol. It wouldn't fix her money situation, but maybe another customer would come later. 

And if one didn't, she could haul herself back downtown tomorrow after cleaning houses all day with her kid.

“Hey fella,” she sauntered out, smoothing out her miniskirt. She willed her teeth to not chatter, and hoped that she still had color in the tips of her fingers. Really, as she leaned forward, tits pressed against the partially rolled down window, she hoped he wasn't looking at her fingers. Let him be interested in her merchandise, please. Let him be a client, for the love of God. 

And if his car had heat, that'd be an added bonus. Thirty dollars and ten minutes out of the bitter cold, that'd be ideal. 

“Hi,” the man stammered, cracking the handle down so the glass acted as a shelf for her breasts. It stung a bit, the glass edge too cold and too blunt, but it wasn't a priority. 

“You looking for a little company?” she asked, smiling, lips together.

“You offering?” He asked, quirking up an eyebrow. He was so utterly unremarkable. His eyes brown, his hair brown, and his face a little doughy, but not so much so that you couldn't see his chin. 

“I’m not standing here for my health,” she giggled, trying to sound more flirty than bitchy. It was hard not to be rude when she was certain that her crotchless thong had frozen into her asshole. 

“You seem awfully healthy, though,” the man said, his pale skin flush from the heat of his car. The fan whirled like it was struggling to keep up with demand as her breath fogged the windshield. 

At least her breath was still warm.

“I like 'em thick,” he rumbled, knuckles turning white as he clenched the steering wheel. “The chunks don't ask for too much.” 

She fought back her urge to frown and slam his head against the horn. She needed the money, even if he thought that she was a fatso. She wasn't. She knew she wasn't. 

Her life was non stop cardio. There was no need to be self conscious with the fact her stomach still slightly hung over her skirt. She'd held a baby in there, for Christ sake.

“I won't ask for too much, sugar,” she purred, leaning into the heat of his car. Her fingers and shoulders were thawing, as was the tip of her nose. “I'm a reasonable lady.” 

“I’ll give you twenty,” he smiled, like he hadn't just insulted her dignity. He must have seen the shock and disgust on her face, because he shifted the car into neutral as she was still hanging out of it. “Take it or leave it, sugar tits,” he chuckled, tapping his breaks as she kicked her heels off of the ground. She dug her fingers into the car window until she was sure it'd stopped moving. 

The guys who came out on Tuesdays were always such jerks. She forced a smile onto her face, taking a deep breath to collect herself. 

“Twenty is fine,” she grimaced, immediately regretting those words. Thirty was her bare bones Tuesday price. Thirty was a deal, and she stood by that. But desperation was it's own animal, and tonight twenty dollars would get her home to South Park. Plus the remainder was enough to keep Carol from going into a full blown tweaker rage and busting out all of her windows. She didn't need to go to jail again, not while pregnant.

“Get in the back seat, trick,” he sneered, putting the car back into park with a jerk. The parking brake creaked as he threw his weight into pulling up the handle.

She struggled to wedge herself out of the window as he started the hand crank. She threw herself backwards, falling, ass first, onto the cold concrete. She stood up, not bothering to survey for damage. She had already began to dissociate and his dick wasn't even in her yet. 

She trembled unwillingly from the cold as she waited for the man to unlock the back door. His finger hovered over the electric locks, moving whenever she'd reach for the handle. 

“You're so eager, baby,” he snorted. “Bet you can't wait for my fat cock.” 

Liane had a sneaking suspicion that it wasn't anything grand, and that it probably fell on the small side of average. The under endowed tended to behave this way. No one she'd met with a big dick felt the need to taunt a hooker. 

Finally, the door unlocked and she scrambled into the back seat as he fought to squeeze through the whole above the center console. He was a bit slimmer than she expected from the roundness of his face. He wasn't graceful though, not in the slightest. He was a jumble of limbs as he scrambled into the backseat.

“You're not hourly,” he reached for her top, his fingers catching in the mesh. “Take it off.”

She followed his instructions, sucking in her gut as his fingers grazed the bottom of her crop top. She pulled the top off, sliding it between the door and the seat so she'd be able to find it quickly. She kicked off her heels, and stowed the shirt in the same spot.

It turns out her panties had not frozen to her ass, which was always a good thing. The man across from her took it upon himself to slide his thumbs down the side of her thong. He pushed her back against the door, banging her head on the naugahyde interior. 

“You're already wet,” he snorted, roughly running a finger outside her vagina. “You must be so excited for me.” 

She didn't tell him it was silicone based lube. She just blushed and nodded. Control freak men usually seemed to go for the whole meek and mild bullshit. She watched, feigning interest as he struggled to unbuckle his belt. He threw his pants wherever, same with his button up shirt. As he pulled down his tighty whities, her guess that he was on the small side was confirmed. 

“Wow, it's nice,” she gasped, not wanting to piss off a cheap customer. Doing extra work to make a customer happy always sucked, but it sucked extra when you knew you were walking away with hardly any cash. 

“Figured you like that, whore.” She didn't even flinch as he spat the last word. 

“Yeah,” she whispered in a breathy moan. “It's so big that I want to ride it.” 

Riding would give her the control, save for the inevitable force on her shoulders near the end. Riding would give her a chance to make it go faster, too. It was her best position, and she knew it. 

“Yeah?” He asked, laying back against the fabric seats. His socked feet slipped past a cigarette burn, and she took her invitation to climb on top of him. 

And within moments she was back to doing what she always did, having unprotected sex with a stranger. She was on the pill, at least. She'd switched after using a diaphragm for a few months. Of course the damn thing had slipped out of place, and of course she'd had an accident. Fixing accidents was costly, and part of why she was three hundred bucks short on her rent. 

“Oh, that's nice,” he moaned. She'd hardly even done anything, just sank onto his dick. She hadn't even pulled off for the first time. She didn't roll her eyes, not when he could see her. She didn't make eye contact either. People don't come to a roadside whore for eye contact. 

“Glad you, mmmm,” she pulled off, drawing that noise out before dropping back down, “enjoy it.” 

By the time she had risen and fallen five times, he was three sheets to the wind, whining about how he was gonna come. He fumbled with her nipples, yanking harder than she found enjoyable. She faked the noises, anyways.

By her sixth movement, she felt that he had come. Jesus, she understood why he only wanted to pay twenty dollars. It had been only about a minute of sex. Where was his stamina? 

“Get off,” he grumbled, shoving her backwards. “Let me finger you. I paid for this.” 

As much as she didn't want sausage hands to finger her, she'd only been here a minute, and she was fairly certain he'd grow bored, as most men did. She leaned against the door, neck craned at a rather uncomfortable angle, with her legs spread. 

As she predicted, he jammed his fat fingers in and out of her for about two minutes, biting her nipples and all together missing her clitoris. In short order, he grew tired, hand slowing and bites languishing. 

“I'm done,” he said over her exaggerated moans. “I'm not paying for you to cum.” She nodded, because it's not like she was ever going to cum that way. She was fairly certain he'd never made a woman cum in his life. She slipped back into her clothes as best she could in such a tight space, took the twenty dollars he held in front of her like she was a dog, and went back to her place on the street. 

At least it was enough for her gas and her babysitter.


	9. Day 9: Titfucking

“Is it because my breasts are too saggy, Gerald?” Sheila asked, looking at him as he peered over the lip of his laptop. “Is that why you’re watching younger girls having a penis thrust between theirs? Is it because you don’t like mine anymore?” 

“No, no,” Gerald gulped, closing the laptop. He had been able to switch it to PornHub at the last minute, instead of his account on the Freja Ollegard memorial website where he was uploading a photo shopped image where her skis were dicks and the jump she was about to take was a bloody vagina. He wished their internet upload speeds weren’t so fucking slow, but what could you do but live with Comcast? 

“But then why are you watching them do it? You’ve never asked to put your penis between my breasts,” she trailed off and he could swear he saw a tear creep into the corner of her eye. No, not again. He thought he had learned his lesson, but apparently not. 

“It’s not about- I didn’t want to demean you, honey.” Please let her buy it. Please let her buy it. 

“It’s not demeaning,” she started, leaning onto the bed as she freed the top button of her blouse. She climbed forward, like an obese tiger. “You shouldn’t be embarrassed of your sexuality. It’s perfectly normal to have a healthy sex life, even at our age.” 

He wishes it wasn’t. Frequently.

She stalked her way onto the bed as Gerald slid the laptop under the bed. Did she just growl? He’s pretty sure that’s what the noise was. He held back his grimace as she totally removed her top. She had two moles on her right breast, just above the bra line, and another on her left hidden. Not that it would stay hidden for long. 

“Take your pants off, big boy. I want you to make love to my boobs.” That made one of them. He did as he was instructed anyway, regretting with every passing moment that he wasn’t in his office on the desktop. It had better processing power anyway, not to mention a locking door. 

“Fuck my titties- do they still call them titties?” Sheila asked, sitting up on her heels. “Ike called them breasticles once, is that what they’re called now?” 

“No, they don’t call them that. I think Ike just made it up,” Gerald sighed. He didn’t want to be talking about Ike as he was trying to make his dick hard for this terrible endeavor. He was a man who made many mistakes, and too many of the mistakes were settled with these kind of consequences.

“Get over here, and ravish me,” she keened, red hair falling out of her updo into her face. He slipped off his underwear and pumped his penis a few times for good measure. 

“Yeah, I’ll do that, honey,” he said, forcing himself to smile. His eyes were wide as she leaned forward on the bed on all fours, head thrown back like she was enjoying herself, despite the fact that nothing had happened yet. 

“Am I doing it right?” She asked, shaking her breasts. 

“Yeah, it’s just- it’s so great that I need a minute to take it all in,” he gulped, imaging a thousand people pissed at something he had said, hoping it would bring him to orgasm quicker. 

“Take me in,” she rasped, tits still wiggling. 

And he did. He rutted his hips into her breasts feverishly. It would have been better if she kept the bra on, he decided. There was too much space between them. He thrust himself forward anyway, forcing something sexy into his head, like a protest in his honor. 

“Oh fuck, Sheila,” he whined, speeding up his humping. He tried to ignore when he’d accidentally bash his stomach into her chin. After a few minutes, he decided to just jack himself to completion and aim for her breasts. 

“Did you like it?” She asked him. He nodded, collapsing back into the bed.

“Yeah, best sex we had in awhile.” She left for the bathroom, semen dripping down her breasts. 

“Maybe you could eat me out?” She asked, running the water for the sink. 

“Oh, I don’t know, honey. It takes a lot of me to come so hard. Maybe another night.” 

“Okay then,” she smiled, splashing water onto her clavicle. “Maybe another night.”

“Yeah, maybe,” he agreed, knowing that putting his mouth near her vagina was the last thing he wanted to do. 

“This stuff’s sticky,” she complained. “I’m gonna pop into the shower. If you’re asleep by the time I get out, have a good night. I love you.” She finished it with a loud muah, pursing her lips into a kiss as she closed the door. 

“Love you, too,” he hollered, grabbing for his computer as soon as he heard the click of the lock. He was pleased to see that the pictured uploaded and over twenty people had called him a monster. He was sure there’d be more by morning.


	10. Day 10: Hair Pulling

“God dammit, Sharon!” Randy complained, carding his fingers through his hair. “That shit stinks.” 

“It's peanut butter,” she sighed. 

“It's gross, that's what it is,” he said, sitting down in front of the bathroom mirror.

“Well, Randy, if you wouldn't piss off the other dads at Little League, no one would put gum in your hair.” She scooped her finger into the jar, placing it on his head. It was Big Red; she could still smell the cinnamon. It wasn't a good smell with the peanut butter and the general stench of body odor. 

“It's not my fault. They said Stan wasn't a good catcher. Stan's a good catcher, if that goddamn Broflovski boy could pitch.” He paused, nose wrinkling up at the smell. 

“Just let them talk,” she groaned, massaging the peanut butter into the gum. They hadn't even chewed it very long, it still held a certain stiffness. It wouldn't surprise her if they threw it into their mouths for a few seconds for the sole purpose of ruining Randy's day. 

Too bad they ended up ruining her night, too. 

“That's our son,” he sneered. “You can't just let people slander his good name.” 

“Please,” she sighed, tugging on his hair lightly to see if the gum would budge. “He's the dumber child, for sure.” 

“Sharon,” he said in a whine. “You're pulling my hair.” 

“It has gum in it,” she said, doing it again. “I'm just trying to get the gum out.” 

“I like when you pull my hair, though,” he whispered, leaning his head back against the kitchen chair they'd dragged up the stairs. “You know how much I like it.” 

“Not now,” she yanked again, deciding that she'd have to add more peanut butter. “This is not the time for a stiffie.” 

“It's never the time for stiffie,” he moped, this time moaning as she pulled his hair. “What if I just jack off while you do it?” He had already undid his pants, before she responded. 

“No, that's reinforcing bad behavior,” she pulled again. She might have just been delusional from his exploits, but it seemed that it was moving, ever so slightly. “It moved!” She shouted, excitedly. 

“That's not the only thing that moves,” he chuckled, working his hand in his jeans, even after she said no. 

“No, stop that,” she said, pulling again. “If you don't, you’ll regret it.” 

“What are you gonna do?” He met her eyes in the mirror and cocked an eyebrow. “Punish me?” He moaned as he pumped his dick, while Sharon just glared.

“Yeah, punish you,” she said with a glint in her eyes. “Is that what you want?”

“Yeah, baby,” he moaned, pulling his dick out of his pants. “I want to be punished. Yank my hair!” 

“I'll do better,” she said, giving one last pull before she rummaged around the drawers. 

“Oh, fuck, Sharon. That's so fucking hot,” he moaned, eyes squeezed shut. “Punish me good.” 

“Oh, I will,” she said, holding the little scissors that usually hid in her make-up for the occasional stray thread or too long moustache hair. “I'll punish you, because you've been a bad boy.” 

“Yeah, fuck. Fuck me, honey.” 

She shook her head disapprovingly as he continued to jack off in front of her. It was strange to watch from a bird's eye view. Fortunately for her, he was so into it, he didn't hear the snip of the scissors or her footsteps across the bathroom floor. 

He was still moaning when she closed the door.


End file.
